


Lost You In Translation

by kutubiyya



Series: Distractions and Complications [5]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Angst, Consensual Kink, Darts, Denial of Feelings, DisclaimerFest 2k17, Light Bondage, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Soap Opera, also don't get excited the other characters are only cameoing via text message, don't worry I'm going to stop soon I promise, here they go again, maybe don't read if you're having a bad day, truly ludicrous levels of angst, unless angsty fic catharsis is helpful to you, with porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-30 11:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12108204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutubiyya/pseuds/kutubiyya
Summary: Jimmy lets his hand drop away. His throat’s gone dry. Here’s his opening. “So how, like… Do you want to talk about it?”One breath, two, three; then the other man’s face comes back round, and just before Ali once again closes the gap between them, Jimmy spots an unguarded expression (hurt, anxiety, need) that makes his heartbeat stutter.“Maybe later,” Ali murmurs. “This first.”--A week or so after Alastair is sacked from the ODI captaincy, he meets Jimmy at the Alexandra Palace for an evening of darts. And, obviously, other stuff. (London, December 2014)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as ever to twistofsilver for the beta read help <3
> 
> This is pretty angsty even by my standards. You may want to skip it and go re-read twistsofsilver's gorgeous AU ['And Speak Each Other in Passing'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8610190) instead :) If you do decide to stay and read this, it may be helpful to revisit the last scene of [this chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4165137/chapters/10329873), because there's a plot point from there that is making a comeback.
> 
> All reads, kudos and comments are very welcome!

_Lose yourself through touch_  
_Lose yourself in love_  
_But it leaves me nothing to know_  
_Just a stationary role_  
_In your bedroom scene_

_Maybe what I’m trying to say is_  
_I lost you in translation_  
_To lover from the hand of a friend_  
_Too much too hard to mention_

\--Delays, ‘Bedroom Scene’

([live version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xeGTJJX1Ppc); [lyrics](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/delays/bedroomscene.html))

 

\--

 

**Chapter 1**

 

The envelope’s a surprise.

It’s waiting for Jimmy at reception, when he checks in: a plain white rectangle of hotel stationery, bearing his name in laboriously neat handwriting. He doesn’t open it, but he doesn’t hear much else the receptionist says to him, either, over the pulse beating in his ears.

Once he’s safely out of sight in the lift, he tears into the smooth, heavy-duty paper. Inside is a keycard, and an unsigned note.

_403\. Free from 3-30_

He draws in a breath, sinking against the mirror at the back of the lift.

He’s spent the past three days wondering if Ali was going drop out of this evening at the darts. Ali’s texts on the subject have been so brief and bland ( _yeah_ and _see you then_ ) that Jimmy couldn’t shake the feeling he was being fobbed off. He wouldn’t have blamed the man for flaking, all things considered: going up on stage at the Alexandra Palace, in front of the cameras, right after being sacked? Must be the last thing Ali feels like doing.

Well, Jimmy should’ve known better. Ali won’t see it as anything heroic; Jimmy’d bet all the cash in his wallet that, if asked, Ali would shrug and say he committed, end of story. But Jimmy leaves the lift with a fierce glow of pride in his belly, even so. How many of the guys criticising Ali in the press, lately, would have the balls to go up on that stage tonight?

(Okay, yeah, to be fair, Nass would; but Nass is different. In Ali’s place, Nass wouldn’t have just gone onstage, he’d have marched there, in a shirt emblazoned with a darts nickname like _Fuck You All_ , and snarled straight into the nearest lens, to boot. Nass has mellowed a lot, since he retired. Jimmy’s still sure his old skipper could take most people in a fight, though.)

He checks his phone: just over half an hour to twiddle his thumbs and overthink the keycard thing. Great. Ali must be doing media. That’d explain the wait; that, and the ridiculously buff lad dragging a coil of cable through the door to 403 when Jimmy saunters past on the way (more or less) to his own room. He makes a mental note to tease Ali about him, later.

He gets most of his overthinking done before he’s even made it to the end of the corridor. He’s borrowed Ali’s hotel key in the past, briefly, but it still feels weird, and this is something else. He couldn’t imagine handing over _his_ key; likes his own space too much. Although he doesn’t hate the idea of returning to a hotel room some future evening to find – say – a surprise naked Ali in his bed.

His current hotel room proves (once he opens the door) to hold no such appeal. View of a brick wall, check. Tiny bathroom with crap-looking excuse for a shower, check. Bed with unnecessary cushions and a complete absence of naked men, check.

Nothing to hold his attention on TV; nothing much going on online. He flops back on the bed, frustrated with himself and just sort of the world in general.

Okay, maybe with bits of the world in particular.

Waiting’s annoying, now he’s here; now _they’re_ here, both of them. He needs to see for himself how the man’s doing. It’s been hard to tell, over the last month or so. They spoke on the phone practically every night of the Sri Lanka tour, and yet they barely said a word to each other that mattered. The longer it went on, the more he began to feel that the phone sex was scratching the immediate itch, but making the underlying craving worse. Their chats contracted, steadily: forty-five minutes; half an hour; fifteen minutes, max. By the end, they were straight to the point, bordering on business-like. Which made no sense; weren’t they friends, still?

The night the team lost the series, Jimmy tried to stop Ali hanging up.

_You go as soon as you’ve come, these days_ , he said, making a joke of it; _not got another few minutes?_

_I learned from the master_ , said Ali; _just sex, innit?_

He ended the call before Jimmy could say anything else. A part of him knew he should call back; that Ali’s flippant tone was a shield, with something else behind it. But it wasn’t until the next morning that he worked up the… courage? Bloody-mindedness? Idiocy? One of those, or maybe all three. Whichever it was, with a churning in his belly and all the warnings he gave himself last summer shouting in his head ( _don’t come on too strong, don’t let yourself down, it’s just a bit of fun_ ), he sent the sort of sappy text he’d always promised himself he wouldn’t:

_How you doing today? Thinking about you_

He wanted to take it back soon as he’d hit send, like the message was some physical thing he could snatch from the air; he waited for the sky to fall in. He couldn’t, and it didn’t; and then a reply came: Ali giving him a flirty brush-off, again. This time Jimmy got irritated, and called.

He messed up the conversation, because of course he did; he always does. That’s why talking is stupid.

\--

Alastair’s not a fan of interviews at the best of times, and psyching himself up for this one has been a task and a half. But it’s turned out to be a nice change, actually (he reflects, hovering politely while the camera crew packs up). Nothing whatsoever to do with ODIs, or captaincy, just an invitation to reminisce about how he got into playing darts: back on his first tour with Harmy and Freddie, in the hotel room they turned into a makeshift pub.

There was quite a bit he couldn’t share with Sky viewers, of course: the levels of routine drinking to which the team management used to turn a blind eye; his near miss with Fred; the way that darts matches between him and Jimmy have largely morphed into foreplay, of late. But the family-friendly highlights package he cobbled together had a certain nostalgic charm to it: the sort of harmless, humanising PR that the ECB has decided it’s keen on again, after the past year or so.

Even now, days after being sacked, he makes these calculations. He has a feeling he knows what Swanny’d say, to that – not that he’s asking, because, well. But Kev’s very public rancour is fresh in Alastair’s mind, and he refuses to make that sort of spectacle of himself. Even if he felt ready to talk about it publicly (he doesn’t; it’s too raw), this thing’s bigger than him. He owes the ECB so much: an entire career, and everything that goes with it. For that, you keep your head down, and take the blows with as much dignity as you can.

For the team, too, even if they’re not _his_ team anymore.

(He’ll always think of them as his team.)

Final handshakes, and finally the door closed. He heaves a sigh, and almost deadlocks it, for good measure. Remembers that he left a key for Jimmy.

On that thought, an adrenalin kick, like snatching a risky single out in the middle: heart thumping, blood rushing to his face, a tightness in his belly that’s right on the edge of nausea.

Things are simpler, but still far from simple. He regrets it, their last proper conversation, how he reacted when Jimmy echoed Swanny’s take on things, telling him to give up. That shouldn’t have affected him like it did. Still; maybe it’s the lesson he needs, even if he doesn’t want to learn it. He’s in too deep. Things need to change.

To avoid the implications of that thought, he starts unpacking his overnight bag. Finds only tripwires. The sheep pyjamas that have become a running joke with Jimmy. A heartfelt card from Joe, received yesterday (the boy was well brought up). The t-shirt he bought on a whim because it was tight, the way Jimmy likes. A bottle top, from the last evening he spent with Jimmy and Swanny together, back in July. Emergency rope, pinched from the farm, just in case Jimmy hasn’t brought his black bag of tricks. Condoms, bought furtively from a motorway service station loo.

And the other thing. The box. He doesn’t know why it’s in the bag, except that it always is, wherever he goes; and he _does_ know, really.

Here it is. What needs to change.

\--

For all the obvious reasons, Jimmy makes sure it isn’t dead on three-thirty when he slips the keycard into the slot on Ali’s door. It’s closer than he’d like, still. But it’s been half an hour, and over a month, and there’s only so much waiting around you can do, even for the sake of saving face.

He draws himself up a bit as he opens the door; puts his best smirk on. This is their game, has been for a while, now. Ali plays at being coy and surprised; Jimmy plays at being more confident than he is. Roles are comforting; roles are—

Typical. The room’s bloody empty. Jimmy’s memory chucks out a snapshot of another space deserted like this: Ali’s room, on the day Swanny mouthed off about the captaincy, back in August. For a moment, worry rears its head again; Jimmy remembers the blisters on Ali’s hands, that day, when he eventually found him in the gym.

Then he hears water running, and realises the bathroom door’s closed.

_Oh_ , he thinks, telling his heartrate to stand down. And then: _mmm_. Ali’s going to be all warm and damp from the shower; perfect. Even as Jimmy has the thought, he hears the water stop. He puts his suitcase down, strolls further into the room.

There’s a small pile of stuff on the bed, spilling out of a backpack; Jimmy wanders over. Idly, he unrolls a t-shirt (not one he recognises, which is unusual); grins to himself when he spots a small coil of rope peeping out from beneath some underwear. The rope’s too coarse to use (he decides when he picks it up, testing it between thumb and forefinger), but it’s good to know where Ali’s mind was tending when he packed for this evening.

As he drags the rope further out, he disturbs the pile. A newspaper slips off the bed to the floor, and as he’s starting to bend down to scoop it up, he spots something else amid snacks and socks: a small blue cube, velvety looking. He straightens up and reaches for it, curious, a memory stirring but nah, surely not—

Abruptly, he’s ambushed: a heavy arm hooks him round the throat.

“Made you jump.” Ali’s chuckle is warm in Jimmy’s ear; a brush of lips there makes the hair stand up on the back of Jimmy’s neck. “You’re early.”

Jimmy smells the fresh citrus of Ali’s shower gel, the deeper musk of his aftershave: scents he associates, now, with the two of them alone together. (Occasionally, he’s caught a whiff in more public places, too, and got a bit of a lift. The distinction between hotel room and dressing room is apparently a bit too subtle for the blunt instrument that is his body.)

He dips his head; nips at the bare arm under his chin. “I’m not.”

A shrug. “By your standards.”

Jimmy gives in to the insistent hand at his hip; lets himself be dragged round until he’s face to flushed face with the other man. There’s a lot of bare skin going on, and for a moment it’s all he can see: sudden actual real flesh after a month or so of just imagining it. (Imagining it regularly, and intensely.) Still a towel around Ali’s waist, though. Always that. Jimmy smiles, and strokes the soft fabric, absently, searching for clues to Ali’s mood in the downcast gaze and the set of his jaw; searching for words, better ones than the last time they talked, properly.

_Why don’t you step down?_ Jimmy said, then. He’s such a fucking idiot. Ali was never going to give up. Being cornered just makes him fight harder. But now they’ve taken the fight out of his hands, and that’s what’ll hurt; except for certain, very specific circumstances (circumstances with Jimmy, in places like this), Ali hates not being in control.

Swanny’s been on at Jimmy again: first by phone, then again when they met up to record a Christmas special of Not Just Cricket the other day.

_Hugs_ , Swanny said. _Lots of hugs. I don’t care that it’s not your style. I don’t care how bloody guilty you feel about the affair. You’d better look after him._

Jimmy’s stomach feels hollow. “Thought I’d surprise you,” he says, and he’s stalling, but he doesn’t know what else to do. “Sneak in. Turns out you’re sneakier.”

Ali still doesn’t quite look up, but there’s a flash of the old grin; no-one in the world has a face that does _pleased_ quite as whole-heartedly as Ali’s. “Old farmers’ trick.”

Jimmy swallows, hard; reaches for Ali’s jaw. Brushes his thumb back and forth over a tiny bit of stubble that’s escaped the razor. “I’ll bet.”

He feels the arm around his neck tighten. As Ali leans in, Jimmy has another moment of disorientation, knocked off his stride again by the imagined become real, but he forces himself to follow Swanny’s orders. Instead of going for a kiss, he wraps both arms around Ali’s back, over smooth skin still slightly damp, and tucks his chin into the space that seems suddenly made for it, between Ali’s neck and his shoulder.

Ali tenses. Jimmy battles to hold his nerve.

He had a conscience, once; it told him not to do stuff like this. Stuff that isn’t fair, stuff that might give Ali the wrong idea. (Not that he was ever tempted. It’s not who he is.) But there have to be exceptions. Times when the normal rules don’t apply. He’d have done this without blinking, back in the day, if he saw Ali in need. Before the affair began. Wouldn’t he?

Well, then. There’s no difference. Except for the part where his fingers have a bloody mind of their own, and are caressing the nape of Ali’s neck. He should stop that. He will. In a minute.

But Ali’s shifting, now, getting his hands up between them, drawing back. “See the rope?”

“Yeah.” Jimmy feels the situation slipping from his grasp, like a dropped glass; pictures his plans, all those tentative gestures of comfort and half-formed reassurances, the _time_ he was going to take, spilling out across the floor. “But it’s a bit too… you know, harsh. Abrasive.” When Ali protests this, Jimmy adds, more firmly, “You’re about to go on TV. In short sleeves.”

Ali leans forward to nuzzle at Jimmy’s neck. “ _So_ ,” he says, as he reaches round and slips his hands into the back pockets of Jimmy’s trousers, “we use it after the darts.” His fingers splay, then dig in.

Jimmy, half-dizzy, draws in a breath; Ali’s pressing hard up against him in front, too, and his hands are itching to untuck that towel. “I’m not…” His next words are muttered against the other man’s temple, halfway between refusal and kiss. “I’m not sending you back to— to the farm like that. Great big friction burns around your wrists.”

Ali tilts his head to catch Jimmy’s eye, then pouts. “Spoilsport.”

(When, Jimmy wonders, did it become so hard to say _no_ to him?)

He snags a damp handful of the mop that is Ali’s hair; the other man’s lips part. “Don’t worry,” Jimmy murmurs, finding the edge of the towel by touch. “Brought my own. The bag. For later.”

“Good.” Ali looks away, abruptly. “Need it, tonight.”

Jimmy lets his hand drop away. His throat’s gone dry. Here’s his opening. “So how, like… Do you want to talk about it?”

One breath, two, three; then the other man’s face comes back round, and just before Ali once again closes the gap between them, Jimmy spots an unguarded expression (hurt, anxiety, _need_ ) that makes his heartbeat stutter.

“Maybe later,” Ali murmurs. “This first.”

His mouth opens, slowly, under Jimmy’s; Jimmy leans in (is _lured_ in), only to find that Ali isn’t done.

“You’ve got promises to keep. I remember _lots_ from the phone sex.”

A sudden grin against Jimmy’s lips, and he doesn’t know, anymore, what the truth is. He groans his frustration, and snatches for the long-awaited kiss.

In the absence of words, this is what he has to give.

\--

Problem is, it still feels so good, despite everything.

Jimmy so close, after so long. Hands and mouth and everything else, and more than that: how Alastair’s body knows him, how _he_ knows _it_ , how they’ve learned each other’s rhythms. The grip on his wrists, pinning them to the mattress beside his head, giving him exactly the force he needs when he tests it; the weight of Jimmy’s thigh pressing and shifting against his groin, pushing his legs apart; the lips climbing his throat as his head tips back, and he gasps.

The moment Jimmy releases his hands, he reaches round to clutch at Jimmy’s backside: pulling him close, kneading the sleek black fabric of his trousers. Alastair’s long since ditched the towel, draping it strategically across the stuff from his bag (across the thing he shouldn’t have brought). But Jimmy’s not taken off a stitch of his own clothing; and he rebuffs, now, Alastair’s attempts to unbutton his shirt, undo his belt.

“Kandy,” Jimmy mutters, in response to Alastair’s puzzled grunt, and with the other man’s grin filling his vision, he remembers.

The night of the fifth ODI, Alastair a buzzing mess of adrenalin from the win, stripped off in the sticky heat and sending Jimmy a reckless, unscheduled photo to prove it. Jimmy calling him, within the minute, voice hushed but husky, trying to sound casual but missing the target. Alastair knew he had him, then; _the glow of victory_ , he said, in response to the usual question, and he didn’t just mean the match. He teased Jimmy down the phone until the other man left dinner early, rushing back to his hotel while Alastair tumbled his breathless way through a fantasy of contrast: himself naked, hands and knees, gazing up, offering everything; Jimmy fully dressed, some sharp suit or other, taking it all without a single hair slipping out of place.

Alastair lifts his head, now, craning his neck to get a better view of this hectic daydream brought to life. (Tries not to look across at his backpack, as he does, afraid of drawing attention to it.) Jimmy’s free hand forces its way under Alastair’s backside, grabbing the top of his thigh, pulling him up off the mattress: more pressure, more friction. Alastair seeks out the heat of Jimmy’s mouth for a hungry kiss. Breaks off to groan, to hiss _Yes_.

Jimmy adjusts himself, smoothly, adjusts both of them: his knees either side of Alastair’s, now, one hand busy with belt and zip, and then finally the hard length of him is pressing up between Alastair’s thighs. Alastair shifts into the familiar position, without really having to think about it. Spots a way to deal with the thing that’s distracting him.

“Hang on,” he says, struggling to sit up, to reach for his bag. “Condom…”

A firm hand on his belly stops him. “Different plan.”

Jimmy’s pushing Alastair’s thighs closed around his cock, and Alastair realises what he has in mind. He tries again, anyway. “Still. Bit of lube can’t h—”

“True. No, don’t get up.” Jimmy slips from the bed, slinks across the room.

Alastair can’t help but watch (how does a man holding up his trousers around a hard-on manage to move with such lithe grace?), and so he spots what Jimmy’s kneeling to unzip: a matte black suitcase, little more than the size of a laptop bag.

Alastair is, for a moment, bewildered; he entirely missed this, when he stepped out of the bathroom. “You brought your…?”

“I, uh. Yeah.” Jimmy, digging through several layers of neatly folded clothes, doesn’t look up. “Seemed easier, you know. Bring the whole thing, rather than unpacking in my room, carting stuff over...”

Alastair, spotting his chance, doesn’t listen to the rest. He scrambles across the mattress, shoves rope and t-shirt and everything else (the box) inside the backpack, then drops it (fairly) discreetly down the side of the bed, just before Jimmy turns back.

Jimmy hesitates, looking at him, and for a minute Alastair’s worried he’s given the game away.

But: “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind?” Alastair blinks, recalibrating for a conversation that hasn’t gone where he expected. _Oh_. “No, that’s…” He looks away. “Like you said. Easier.”

( _Easier._ Really. This from the man who got all weird about having so much as a _toothbrush_ with him in Alastair’s hotel room, not long ago. Now here he is with his whole _suitcase_ —)

“I said don’t get up.” Jimmy’s back at the bed; his voice is quiet. “Lie back and let me take care of… of things.”

Alastair lets himself be pushed down. Easier than trying to sort through the tangle in his head. He searches for something to say, something that’s not _I honestly don’t get you_ , or (worse) _I missed you_ , but the well’s dry. Arching and stretching, pushing against the hands that slide up his chest and slip away down his sides, he settles instead on encouraging grunts.

He feels Jimmy’s lips curve against his collar bone, and has to fight the urge to haul the other man’s head up, so he can get a good look at that smile. Is it the in-charge smirk, or the other one – the helpless, bashful one, the one that makes Jimmy duck his head and wet his lips, the one that sends lines radiating out from the corners of his eyes? Alastair wants to count those lines, kiss them, trace them with his fingertips; he’s pictured them, or tried to, all too often while they’ve been on the phone, over the past month.

Not useful thoughts.

It takes until Jimmy’s begun to thrust between Alastair’s newly slick thighs, fist tight around Alastair’s twitching cock, before he can work up something more bantery to say.

“These trousers expensive?” Alastair rubs his palms over the seat of them, firmly; digging his fingers in. “Gonna get messy.”

“Yeah. But...”

Jimmy pauses, clicks his tongue, shifts; tucks Alastair’s cock between his legs. There’s friction from fabric of his trousers and their shafts rub against each other, now, opposing motion when Jimmy moves. Alastair bites his lip as sensation builds, then thinks, _sod it_ , and lets himself moan. Jimmy ups the tempo; buries his face in Alastair’s neck.

(Like he did before, the out-of-nowhere embrace that made Alastair’s chest ache, made him yearn for shelter, but there’s enough distraction that he can let that thought slip away.)

Jimmy’s voice is muffled, breath moist on Alastair’s skin. “Got a spare pair. _Two_ spares.”

Laughter spills from Alastair’s open, gasping mouth; he can’t stop it, or the words that follow. “Course you do. Course you… _Fuck_ , I hate you – I wish I could hate you – always so together and so— fuck. _Fuck_.”

Jimmy’s laughing, too, softly. “Told you. Swearing more.”

“Your fucking fault,” Alastair manages, then gives in to the cloudburst inside him, jerking and shuddering in Jimmy’s grasp. When he finally comes to rest, floating in satisfaction and with muscles turned soft like warm butter, he feels the spreading wetness between them, and clears his throat.

“Um. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Jimmy’s face hoves into view; after a moment, his frown of concern becomes a smirk. “Huh. You’re not.”

“Little bit. Mostly not.” Alastair feels lighter; he wants to laugh. As Jimmy’s face disappears again, and slow kisses start to bloom up Alastair’s chest, he sighs, contented. “Thank you.”

Lips reach his throat; they’re smiling, again.

He feels the moment the smile fades; hears an intake of breath, as Jimmy prepares to speak.

_Don’t_ , Alastair thinks; urges Jimmy, silently. _Don’t, don’t, don’t_.

“I’m…” Jimmy hesitates. “I’m here. If you want to talk.”

Alastair feels a pit opening before him, deep and dark. He steps away from the edge.

He sits up, opening his eyes; looks pointedly at the clock. Pats Jimmy’s thigh. Flashes a smile he no longer quite means.

“We’ve got to be camera-ready in, like, ten minutes,” he says, “and you need fresh trousers.” He pushes himself swiftly out of bed.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

Jimmy’s excitement is a nervous grin, plastered to his face. Pissing about in hotel rooms is one thing; taking to the Ally Pally stage is quite another, even with most of the evening’s audience not there yet.

His darts sobriquet – emblazoned across the back of his shirt, announced to the hall in ringing tones – is the Swinger. He’d been racking his brain for days, but it seemed obvious as soon as Ali suggested it. Even it hadn’t been, the other man’s glee at the innuendo ( _Plus,_ you _swing both ways, too_ ) was, like so much about him, impossible to resist.

Even with most of the evening’s audience not arrived yet, Jimmy still feels like a bit of a lemon when, just before they start, he somehow ends up clasping Ali’s outstretched fist, rather than bumping it like he was clearly meant to. He feels more or less the same, in the blur of a match that follows, every time he misses the twenty. Which is a lot.

He’s not the only one a bit off his game, though.

“Come on, Alastair, beat your average,” yells some wag, out in the crowd.

Ali immediately follows a triple twenty with two more twenties, giving him a hundred. As he wheels away from the board, his smile’s dazzling.

“First time in a while, innit,” he quips, voice raised for the crowd and the cameras, and it’s harmless banter and his timing’s perfect – but Jimmy will remember it, later, and wonder how much it cost Ali, to make a joke of it.

\--

Changing shirt again, downstairs, Jimmy switches on his phone to find that every single one of the smug bastards has texted. Of course they have.

There are two from Swanny:

_you were doing that thing with your tongue again_

(followed swiftly by)

_said the actress to the bishop_

One from Finny:

_Worst display of darts I’ve ever seen. The hug at the end was lovely tho ;)_

And this from Broady:

_Always a smart move to let the bf win._

Jimmy ignores the others, but he can’t let the last one stand.

 _That’s your excuse for being shit at Fifa?_ _PS I didn’t_

All he gets back are two laughing face emojis, and _Guess that solves the question of who’s on top then_. He gives up, and stuffs his phone back in his pocket.

After a guest stint in the cramped but merry commentary booth – Jimmy keeping his thigh half an inch or so from Ali’s, enjoying the tingling, tantalising awareness of how close they are to touching – they take advantage of Sky’s hospitality, joining a table near the stage that proves to be well supplied with free drinks. Ali spends the next hour doing that thing he does: drifting from seat to seat around the table, liberally sharing out his attention. To everyone but Jimmy.

It’s probably for the best, really; if Ali were in reach, Jimmy would’ve had to lean over and do up the other man’s shirt by now. And then eyebrows would have been raised; the Ally Pally doesn’t strike him as the sort of place where blokes lose much sleep over each other’s grooming habits.

Still. With his mussed hair, rolled-up sleeves, and three shirt buttons undone, Ali looks like he’s just rolled out of bed. And yes, to be fair, he _was_ in bed fairly recently, but the man’s been through hair and make-up since then. Jimmy saw it happen; he was standing next to him.

On that thought, Jimmy catches Ali’s eye, across the table. Jimmy tugs at his own shirt, points towards Ali, and shakes his head. Ali sticks out his tongue, raises his arms, and scrubs both hands through his hair, leisurely, pulling his shirt tight across his chest in the process. Jimmy’s halfway through a sigh – a long-suffering, drawn-out, pointed sort of sigh – when the guy next to Ali stands up. The man shakes Ali’s hand, claps him on the back, and Jimmy’s had too much booze not to seize his chance; he’s rounded the table, plonked down his pint, and is yanking back the vacant chair before its previous occupant is five paces away.

“Evening,” he says, leaning on Ali’s shoulder – giving it a surreptitious squeeze – as he sits.

Ali rests his chin on Jimmy’s hand; regards Jimmy, with a grin, through half-closed eyes. “I take it my outfit’s not approved.”

Jimmy grunts, and leans in so he can lower his voice. He feels a hint of stubble digging into his knuckles as Ali tilts his head to listen. “You know what they say. It’d look better on the floor of your hotel room.”

Ali throws his head back, laughing. “You think that about everything I wear, though.” There’s something slightly hectic about his movements, about the flush high in his cheeks; Jimmy noticed it from the other side of the table, but now he thinks it isn’t just down to the beer.

Ali’s chin comes back down to rest on Jimmy’s hand. His head lolls forward, and for a moment Jimmy’s worried the man’s going to plant a kiss on his hand, right in front of the cameras that they both know are periodically pointing at them. He snatches his hand away, and Ali’s face is falling as he twists to face the stage.

Jimmy flounders a bit, then slouches in his seat, stretching his legs out to crowd into Ali’s space, under the table. Ali glances back round, rolling his eyes, but shifts – and clamps his calves either side of Jimmy’s ankles. A struggle ensues: Jimmy straining to get free, hamming up his effort as he pushes against Ali’s legs; Ali somewhere between grinning and gritting his teeth, stubbornly refusing to be shifted. Then, without warning, Ali pulls his own legs away. Taken by surprise, Jimmy doesn’t have time to check the force he’s using, and his feet shoot apart: one smacking into a chair leg, the other kicking the off-duty Sky producer on the other side of the table.

Jimmy hastily apologises to their heavy-set, harrumphing host, while Ali plants his elbows on the table and covers his mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking. Jimmy pokes him in the side, ostentatiously rubs his ankle, and mutters, “Brat.”

Ali gives him a sly, sidelong look. “Is it my fault you can’t keep your legs closed?”

Jimmy’s startled into a laugh; rubs his nose to try to hide it, aware that the producer’s probably still watching from the corner of his eye. Clears his throat. “When do you want to head off?”

“After this drink?” Ali raises his glass, which is three-quarters empty. He looks properly at Jimmy again, for the first time in a while. “Your leg all right? Sorry, didn’t _quite_ mean to…”

Jimmy smiles. “I’ve had worse.”

“Thank god.” Ali ducks his head. “I can just imagine the headlines, otherwise: ‘England’s leading wicket-taker out for six months after _attack_ by bitter former captain’.” He huffs a laugh that sounds pretty mirthless.

“Are you?” Jimmy says, as quietly as he can and still be sure he’s heard, over the noise of the increasingly raucous crowd. “Bitter?”

Ali shrugs; when he looks up, it’s at the stage, not at Jimmy. “You all ready for the, uh… the new year? After the surgery?”

Jimmy, thwarted again, watches Ali for a long moment. Why, he wonders, can’t he just let Ali be? If the roles were reversed, Jimmy wouldn’t want to talk. And yet.

He hears the announcer, as if from a great distance: _One hunnnndred and eighty!_

“Yeah,” he says, at last. “All back to normal. Thereabouts. Just another scar for my collection, now.” He’s bending down to roll up his trouser leg, to show it off, when he remembers ( _Cameras, you prat_ ), and stops himself.

“Good.” Ali takes a long draught of his remaining beer; he’s still watching the stage.

Is this Jimmy’s way in? Swanny would know what to do. How much to push.

Jimmy clears his throat, plotting a course to his goal. “We put ourselves through a lot, don’t we? The injuries. And all that.”

Ali shrugs. “They put a lot into us. Fixing us when we break.”

( _If we can be fixed_ , Jimmy thinks. He has a sudden memory of Pup’s voice, in the video from Phillip Hughes’ funeral, two weeks ago: familiar tones splintering under the weight of grief. He didn’t sound much better when Jimmy called him, a day or so later.)

He has to swallow, hard, before he can speak again.

“Yeah. They do. They do put a lot into us. But… Do you ever, you know, feel like— like…”

Great; Ali’s finally making eye contact again, just when Jimmy’s really struggling. He can feel his face creasing into a scowl of annoyance: dragging these words into sentences is like trying to jog through three feet of soft sand.

There must be an easier way to do this. Apart from not at all, which is almost deliriously tempting.

He tries again. “Doesn’t it feel, sometimes, like your body’s not your own? You know, with all the…” He gestures, helplessly.

To his surprise, Ali goes for it.

“I guess. Actually… yeah. A little bit.” Ali shifts in his seat, so he’s closer to facing Jimmy; rests an arm on the back of the chair, bent at the elbow. “Weird. I was only thinking about this yesterday. The insurance. I’ve got four, five months, now, before I do anything else for the ECB. Well, who knows, I might not even play at all, but in _theory_ —”

“Of _course_ you’re—”

Jimmy finding he’s talking over Ali. He touches the other man’s arm. Waits until Ali goes quiet; for permission.

“Ali, listen to me. They’re not dropping you from the Test team. It’s not happening. We’ll both be in the Caribbean in April.”

Ali shakes his head. “I’m not after reassurance. Just not taking anything for granted. _Anyway_. The point is…” He rubs restlessly at his upper arm, pushing the rolled shirt sleeve up, exposing his bicep with its tan line. “I’ve got all this free time, suddenly. And I’m going to have to work really hard, obviously, but I was thinking… I could go skiing. It’s the winter, I could go. But I’m not allowed to. To be honest, I don’t even know if I _like_ skiing. You know? I mean, it’s been so long since I tried it. Maybe I’ve, like, built it up in my mind. Maybe I just want to do it _because_ I’m not allowed to.” He huffs a laugh, but his brow’s wrinkled in a frown. “It’s never really bothered me before. But now, somehow, I really want to do this thing, and I can’t. I’m too expensive to insure and… yeah. Like you said. My job has the final say over what I can do with my body. Even though— Well.”

Two paths lie before Jimmy. Down one, he takes the chance offered by that dangling _even though_ , and all the other hints before it; catches the dropped glass mid-fall, says some words that actually matter, gets Ali to open back up again. Like he used to, before.

Down the other, the path he takes, the path of least resistance, he smirks and says, “Can’t imagine what that’s like. Wanting to do something because you shouldn’t.”

“Ha. Wait…” Narrowed eyes; a matching smirk; a moment lost. “You saying you only want to do _me_ because I’m forbidden?”

“I was joking,” mutters Jimmy, already repenting his choice. “So—”

“Me too.” Dark eyes watch him, above a thoughtful half-smile. “Although. Is this about, like… I don’t know, temptation, or sin, or something? Swanny said you—”

Jimmy leaps on this. “You’ve spoken to him?”

(If he has, it’s news; only the other day, after Not Just Cricket, Swanny was moping like a champ about his continued lack of contact with Ali.)

The shutters come down. “No. This was a while back.” Ali hesitates, then adds, “He left me a voicemail, though. After…” His gaze flicks away; returns. “You know. The other day.”

Jimmy holds his breath, but there’s nothing else. “What did he say?”

Ali throws up his hands; shifts in his seat. “I dunno, I didn’t listen to it. Why would I?”

“Wow.” Jimmy has to chuckle, a bit, if only in disbelief. “When you break up with someone, you _really_ break up with them.”

Ali sticks his tongue out. But his new smirk falters, and he looks away. “Didn’t much fancy hearing him say he told me so.”

Jimmy’s protest is instant, instinctive. “Come _on_ , he wouldn’t—”

Ali snorts. “Course he would. This is Swanny we’re talking about.”

“He wouldn’t. Not about this. Not to you.” It takes almost everything Jimmy’s got not to reach out and touch Ali’s flushed, haunted face. “He cares about you too much for that.”

Ali doesn’t reply; just finishes his drink, and stands.

\--

Scrambling out of the taxi, back at the hotel, Alastair trips and narrowly avoids sending the doorman flying. The man checks Alastair’s fall and then, well, checks him out. That’s the only way to describe it. The guy’s got six inches on Alastair, at least; as Alastair regains his feet, supported by a firm hand at his elbow, his gaze has to go up and up until it meets dark skin, sparkling eyes, and a rueful smile above a neatly-trimmed, curly beard.

Alastair stammers his thanks, taken aback, and then – as he and Jimmy reach the lifts – kind of giddy. No-one’s stared at him that blatantly in public since Kev.

“Your face,” says Jimmy, with a smirk. He pushes the button to call the lift.

Alastair shakes his head, chuckling, as the lift doors open. “It was just so…” On his way past, he shoots Jimmy a sideways look. There’s something in his posture; Alastair spots a chance to play. “Jealous?”

Jimmy watches him a moment, motionless. “Of the way he’s made you smile, yeah.” Then he shrugs, and strolls into the lift after him. “Though judging from the way he fills out that suit, I’m pretty sure he could take me in a fight, so…”

Alastair deliberately turns his back on Jimmy while he scans the buttons for the right floor. “So I should go back, then?”

A beat, as the doors close; then a touch in the small of Alastair’s back, and Jimmy’s voice, low, in his ear.

“Didn’t say _that_.”

Jimmy’s got hold of his belt, Alastair realises, feeling the tug just below his waist and letting himself be pulled back a step. There’s a tickle of breath on his cheek, but he resists the temptation to chase it. He knows Jimmy’s mouth is going to stop short; that this is a tease, to repay a tease. Fingertips trace Alastair’s jaw; his skin tingles in their wake.

“Probably shouldn’t,” he says, brightly. (He’s going to win this round; he’s _not_ going to fall for it.) “You know, in here.”

“Probably.”

This is a murmur, right up against his lips, and then Jimmy’s kissing him and it’s not a tease, not at all. Alastair squeaks in surprise, makes a token attempt to protest, but Jimmy’s hand is cupping his jaw properly, now, drawing Alastair’s face round, and he’s deepening the kiss. They don’t stop until the lift does (which can’t be that long, but feels it), at which point Alastair finds that he’s leaning back into Jimmy quite heavily, and breathing significantly harder than he was a moment ago.

“On a scale of one to ten,” says Alastair, to deflect attention (mostly his own) from this reaction, “how drunk are you?”

“Four.” Jimmy throws up an arm to stop the lift doors closing again. “Well, five. Five and a half. You?”

“Not too bad.” Alastair thought he was in the mood to get rat-arsed; he was wrong. Luckily, moving from seat to seat round a big table gives you plenty of chances to accidentally leave drinks behind, without having to turn them down and give people chance to wonder why. “Maybe three?”

(Something like that, anyway. Enough to make smiling easier, but not enough to have the deep and meaningful Jimmy’s been pretending he wants.)

He tries to leave the lift, but finds himself checked: Jimmy’s grip on his belt is still firm, and the other man’s thumb is just inside the waistband, now, stroking up and down a small patch of skin that’s suddenly very alive.

He looks round; raises his eyebrows. “Planning to let me go?”

Jimmy snorts. “So you can go and get yourself manhandled again? Nope.”

\--

“I’m fine,” Ali’s saying, back in his room, as he pulls Jimmy’s shirt from his trousers with quick, urgent tugs. “Or, you know, not _fine_. I’m good. Good. I’m, like, tipsy at _most_.”

Jimmy fights a grin. He’s already made Ali take off his own shirt, so he could watch for tell-tale fumbles with the buttons. Satisfied the other man isn’t too pissed, he can relax into, well, taking the piss.

“Tell that to your eyelids.” He brushes long lashes with his thumb. Ali’s hands are warm under his shirt. “They’re _hammered_.”

“What can I say” –Ali dips his head, starts kissing Jimmy’s neck— “they’re lightweights.”

Jimmy’s laughter, as he slips his arms around Ali’s back, has a measure of relief in it; it’s good to hear the other man joking around, after everything that’s happened, lately.

“It’s not going to be the same, you know. In Australia.” He isn’t looking forward to being the old man among the lads. Normally he’d be happy enough with Broady and Finny for company, at least, but they’re probably going to be all gooey and cuddly around him now. He shudders at the thought. “Without you.”

In any team, but especially a national side, you learn the hard way not to get too attached to your teammates. Even when you’re not competing for the same spot – when you’re an opening batsman and a swing bowler, for example – people still get injured, run out of form, fall from favour. Sometimes they come back, sometimes they don’t; and then there’s that survivor’s guilt thing. You have knuckle down, and carry on, while they’re left behind.

If he’s honest, Jimmy’s never quite come to terms with Swanny’s retirement. But he’s taken it for granted, for years now, that Ali would always be there. That he – Jimmy – would be the one left behind, retiring while Ali goes on.

“Poor thing.” Ali pops the top two buttons of Jimmy’s shirt and plants damp lips on the exposed skin. “You’re going to miss out on so much sex.”

Jimmy frowns, but Ali isn’t looking up. “I didn’t mean that. Or… I didn’t _just_ mean that.”

Ali huffs a laugh; another shirt button goes. “I believe you.” He grins up at Jimmy. “ _Really_ I do.”

Jimmy hesitates; there’s something about the conversation nudging at him, something he’s missing. Maybe it’s just that they haven’t really talked, still. (Swanny’s going to tell him off. Again.)

Ali stands up straight; his lips brush Jimmy’s cheek, then his hairline. “Come on,” he says, and Jimmy feels Ali’s hand go skittering down his body, past his belt; become a firm touch against firming flesh. “It’s our last night.”

Jimmy draws in a sharp breath, then buries his hands in Ali’s hair, and claims his mouth.

\--

Alastair’s been waiting for this. For quite a while.

(He knows exactly how long, but he’s not going anywhere near that line of thought.)

Somewhere behind his head, further up the bed, there’s a narrow length of rope sliding against his skin. It’s tightening, swiftly, drawing his wrists together. Closing down his space for movement, in a way that he knows he can’t simply brute force his way out of.

(That’s the point.)

Jimmy straightens up, sitting back on his heels. Alastair stretches and strains, reminding himself of how it feels. The _idea_ of rope, in general, featured quite a bit in the phone sex, but reality outstrips the fantasy.

It’s also more exposing, of course; his responses are harder to hide than they were over a mobile connection, across continents. Straddling Alastair’s waist, Jimmy’s dragging his hands up and down Alastair’s chest with a firmness somewhere between caress and massage, but his considering gaze never shifts from Alastair’s face.

“Relax,” Jimmy says, and Alastair almost laughs.

Jimmy bends down; starts to plant a line of slow kisses along Alastair’s collar bone. On the fourth, his teeth make a brief appearance, making Alastair flinch, and hiss.

Jimmy looks up at him, then resumes. “For the next hour, or whatever,” he murmurs, after the next kiss, “you belong to me.” Kiss. “No decisions.” Kiss. “No thinking.” Kiss. “I do all that.” Another nip, sharper and longer. “ _Mine._ Right?”

Alastair breaks the rules immediately, because he’s thinking back to their earlier conversation ( _Doesn’t it feel like your body’s not your own?_ ), and he knows that what Jimmy says isn’t true, that it can’t ever be true; he belongs to so many people. But in a way, it is: in this temporary space they’ve made with a locked door, and some rope. So.

“Right,” he says, and is surprised by how clear the word comes out.

His skin is flushed and twitching and longing for more – and for this evening, this one last evening, he doesn’t have to be in control of anything.

More quietly, because he doesn’t quite trust his voice for the next bit: “Yours.”

Jimmy sits up again, and reaches behind him; pulls a second length of rope from the black pouch. The expression of grave concentration he’s been wearing until now slips, the hint of a smile peeping out from underneath it. He dangles one end of the rope above Alastair’s upturned face: tapping it against his nose, tickling his throat, brushing over his lips. Alastair lunges for it, teeth snapping into place just before Jimmy can jerk the rope away. He grins around his prize as Jimmy tugs at it, letting his head be dragged up and back but refusing to let go.

Jimmy grunts. “If you’re that keen for something in your mouth, I’ve got better options,” he says, and Alastair can’t help but grin.

Then Jimmy leans in, and over, hands once again busy somewhere up above Alastair’s head. Alastair catches a glimpse of the second rope being looped around the first, and then his arms are hauled further up the bed. Jimmy’s closer, now, tantalisingly so, abdominal muscle all on display with his stretch. Alastair strains up off the mattress, until he can press his mouth to taut skin. He draws lips and tongue down Jimmy’s torso, as far as he can reach towards the trail of wiry hair from Jimmy’s belly button; then back up. By the time he’s done, so’s Jimmy, and there’s no more give in the rope securing Alastair to the headboard. A hand slips into his hair, knees tighten against his waist and hips, and he’s being kissed so thoroughly it makes his head spin.

When he’s allowed up for air, Alastair watches Jimmy watch his mouth, and plays up to it: licking his lips, parting them, dragging his lower lip between his teeth. He feels his hair being teased into coils, twisted around insistent fingers; lets his head be tilted back, liking the vulnerability.

“What was that you said, about better options?”

 _Now_ Jimmy’s looking him in the eye. Mostly. “Only got the one in mind, right now,” he says. Then, after a long moment, “Well?”

Alastair manoeuvres himself so he can knee Jimmy in the arse. “Thought I wasn’t making any decisions?”

Jimmy blinks. “Good point.” He drops his gaze; an abashed smile creeps onto his face. “Uh. Sorry.”

Alastair looks away. _This is_ really _not the time_ , he tells the stupid fluttering in his chest. (He’s thought about this, quite a bit, since the last time they were together. It’s the imperfections in Jimmy’s control, Alastair’s decided, that really capture him. He likes the arrogance, but that, by itself, wouldn’t be enough.) This is not a safe track for his thoughts.

At least there’s no more conversation; Jimmy’s reaching across to the bedside cabinet, where the black pouch sits beside his phone. Alastair catches his breath, imagining for a moment Jimmy taking a photo of him like this, videoing him like this: flat on his back with his hands tied above his head and _fuck me_ the bassline of his every gasp.

(It’s much less alarming to him, this idea, than it might once have been; a month of photo-laden phone sex changes a lot.)

The only thing Jimmy picks up is that little plastic ball, the cat toy with the bell in it. Alastair’s pulse quickens, as the ball’s pushed into his captive hands, along with the usual reminder: one shake for all’s well, two shakes for stop. He does the one shake expected of him, and smothers irritation behind a smile; he doesn’t want a safety net, tonight. Jimmy’s already closing in, though, one hand braced on the headboard and the other wrapped around the base of his cock; and he wouldn’t debate it, anyway.

Alastair closes his eyes at the first touch against his lips. Lets his mouth be forced open, just that little bit wider than he’s been remembering in his fantasies; lets the thick, hard cock push into him, until his mouth’s full and his lips are right up against Jimmy’s fist and he’s fighting his gag reflex. Sucks fiercely, as best he can from his prone position, cheeks hollowing around unyielding stiffness. Jimmy groans, mutters something; Alastair opens his eyes, before he can stop himself. Jimmy’s gaze is dark, beneath a furrowed brow.

Sometimes, Alastair thinks he could burn up, just from the way Jimmy looks at him; the intensity of that stare, laying him open.

Jimmy breaks out of it first; dropping his head, rocking his hips, taking charge. (As soon as he’s sure Jimmy isn’t looking, Alastair lets go of the ball.) The urge to gag gets stronger as Jimmy’s thrusts get deeper. Alastair feels saliva gathering at the back of his mouth, tears in his eyes. There’s a noise in his throat that’s part moan, part whimper, all out of his control. _Perfect_. He clenches bound, empty hands into fists, and gives himself up to helplessness. He couldn’t stop this now if he wanted to.

Jimmy’s swearing, under his breath. Alastair tastes salty bitterness. Not long.

A low growl sounds; Jimmy’s rhythm falters, and Alastair realise that the sound is Jimmy’s phone, by the bed. _Don’t you dare_ , Alastair thinks, only half seriously. Now Jimmy’s slowed, he can feel just how much his own cock is throbbing.

Jimmy’s mind-reading skills, mercifully, turn out to be excellent. Keeping one hand white-knuckled on the headboard, Jimmy leans backwards, all slender, balanced perfection as he reaches behind the arch of his back with his other hand. The movement shoves his cock even further down Alastair’s throat, and for a split second Alastair really is choking, half-blind with tears, giving muffled voice to an alarm on the edge of panic.

Then contact: a strong grip right where he needs it (stroke squeeze pull _yes_ ) and the choked sounds he’s making turn guttural, shameless, pleading; fuck fuck _fuck_ —

(Done.)

\--

Jimmy cleans Ali up a bit, and makes him drink some water. Ali would never ask for this, even though he’s swallowed more than he usually does, but Jimmy does it anyway, cradling the other man’s head until his flush fades and his gaze is less spaced out. Absently, he plucks the ball from the space between mattress and headboard, where it’s got wedged. Ali must have dropped it, Jimmy decides, while he was getting the water.

He puts the ball back in the pouch. Which is when he catches sight of his phone, and finally lets himself check it. The name on the screen, it turns out, really _is_ what he thought he saw, earlier.

Or the initials, rather: _MC_.

The phone number’s a new entry in Jimmy’s contacts list, or an old one restored; he deleted the original long ago. When he found himself suddenly wanting to use it again – after the video of the eulogy had yanked, hard, at heartstrings he thought he’d cut long ago – he had to go through several people to get it. (He could have simplified things, could have gone straight to Warne, but thankfully he didn’t need that last resort.) Maybe it was just because he was putting off actually making the call, but he found himself weirdly unsure how to save the number; what name to give it. _Pup_ seemed childish; _Mike_ simultaneously too intimate and too false. He could probably count on the fingers of one hand how often he’d called the man that.

(If he’d kept count, which he hadn’t. He’d realised, at a certain point, that that way madness lay.)

Having reached the unsatisfying compromise of _MC_ , Jimmy finally tapped the call button, tight bands of tension wrapping around and around his chest. He’d forgotten to check what time it was, down there, but didn’t have to wait long for an answer, even so. _Jimmy_ , the other man said, and it didn’t occur to Jimmy until later, until now, that he hadn’t needed to introduce himself: that Pup still had _his_ number, and what that meant. _I’m really sorry for your loss_ , he began, and bit his tongue, expecting a sneer – such empty words, so inadequate – that never came, not anywhere in the conversation that followed.

And now, nearly three weeks later, Mike’s called _him_ , and he doesn’t know what to think. There’s a text, sent just after the missed call.

_just seen video of you playing darts don’t give up the day job mate_

Jimmy knows what to do with this, at least.

_Why would I when my day job is bowling you through the gate?_

His phone’s buzzing almost immediately.

_in your sad little dreams pom. still owe you a broken arm_

It’s a sign, he supposes, of how things have changed since this time last year: the fact that he smirks, a little, at this. He thinks about replying, but decides against it; more important things to do. He puts his phone down, half-turning back to Ali, but it buzzes again.

_shame yr captain won’t be here next month was looking forward to comparing notes with him on your technique. but there’s always the Ashes right_

There it is. Anger, like a kick to the head; like only Pup can provoke. Jimmy grits his teeth and switches off the phone, before he can text back something he’ll regret.

( _if you touch him it won’t be me with the broken fucking arm_ )

He’s not doing that kind of thing anymore. The Jadeja saga, this past summer, was the end of it. From now on, he’s going to act his age, and stop getting in pointless fights. Not even with Pup. Especially not with Pup.

“I wasn’t serious,” mutters Ali, as Jimmy shuffles over to lie down beside him.

Jimmy thinks about this. Gets nowhere. “Huh?”

“I mean, uh…” Ali’s flushed again; his gaze darts away from Jimmy’s puzzled one. “Call them back, if you need to. If it’s your family.”

“It’s _not_.” Jimmy brushes his lips against Ali’s shoulder, to soften the sharpness of the words. He reaches up to check the rope isn’t too tight, then settles his head on Ali’s arm; his bicep offers a nice firm pillow. He sighs. “It’s nothing. Just some more predictable banter about me losing to you at darts.”

Ali glances at him, then away. “Sure,” he says, at last. Then he goes still. “It wasn’t, ah… wasn’t from Finny, was it?”

“No…” Jimmy stops playing with Ali’s hair (one day, _one day_ he’s going to sit him down in front of a proper hairdresser, with proper instructions). He narrows his eyes, belatedly registering the studied innocence in Ali’s tone. “Any reason why it would be?”

“I. Well. Finny wanted to know what your forfeit was. Offered to put photos on twitter.” Ali coughs. “It’s… So I may have let him think…”

“What.”

Ali’s arms jerk, like he’s temporarily forgotten they’re tied to the headboard. “Nothing bad!” He twists towards Jimmy, then back again. “I just wanted to, you know… to seem like I was the sort of person who would actually _think_ about fun stuff, like forfeits and banter and that. So I texted back that it was between you and me, with a… with a winking smiley, and… hopefully he doesn’t have _too_ active an imagination…”

Jimmy sighs, theatrically. “I’m going to get so much stick next month.” He can’t hold the sulk for even the length of the sentence. He can’t actually _kiss_ Ali, either, because he’s bloody smiling too much. “Ridiculous man.”

“Stop,” says Ali, and then he takes care of the kissing part before Jimmy can ask what he’s meant to stop doing.

Somewhat later, they argue – mildly – over what should happen with the ropes. Ali wins, and stays tied up.

But if the other man’s getting what he wants, Jimmy reasons, he can work for it. He makes Ali raise his arse and thighs off the bed, head and shoulders and feet his only points of contact with the mattress, like he’s stretching for a warm-up – and then makes him hold the position, a frozen thrust into the air, while Jimmy spends a long, long time teasing his hole with first one, then two, then three slick fingers.

\--

The peace lasts for a while: a peace of tired muscles and twitching skin, of warmth and haze and shared sweat, and lips moving quietly over the welts at his wrists.

It lasts Alastair all the way into sleep, in fact, as he learns when he blinks and finds things suddenly changed. The body that was lazily leaning into his is now poised on the edge of the bed. He reaches for it, reflexively; bereft.

“Sorry,” Jimmy says, softly. “Didn’t mean to wake you up. Just going to the loo.”

Alastair grunts, and rolls over, pulling the sheets up over his cooling skin. He’s awake enough, now, to be embarrassed by the needy little whine he gave when he reached for Jimmy; awake enough to be impatient with that brief sense of abandonment. This is how things are.

( _I can’t give you what you want_. Just the thought makes Alastair cringe; Jimmy having to say that. He’s a grown man, not some boy with his first crush.)

His gaze falls on Jimmy’s phone. _It’s nothing_ , Jimmy said, earlier, and it’s obvious he was lying. There’s only one reason he _would_ lie, though – and here’s another reason things can’t go on the way they are.

( _Things like this_ , Jimmy said, back in September, when they argued; _they belong to my marriage._ )

Alastair’s done a lot of thinking since then. There was a time when he resented Jimmy’s ability to compartmentalise, to draw boundaries between evenings with Alastair and the more enduring parts of his life. But lately – especially out in Sri Lanka, and since then – he’s come to envy Jimmy those sharp dividing lines. Everything in its proper time and place, no confusion or complications.

Standing amid what might just be the ruins of his career, Alastair’s feeling more clear-sighted than he has in months. He needs to emulate Jimmy. If he wants to lead out the Test team in Antigua, come the spring, he’s got a lot of work to do. It’s like Jimmy donning the mask of nasty fasty out in the middle, and then shedding it once he leaves the field. Alastair needs to be able to devote all his focus and energy to whatever’s in front of him. He needs to forget about where Jimmy will be – about where he himself _won’t_ be – and do his job.

He needs to forget about Jimmy full stop, most of the time.

Which probably means – it occurs to him – that this is his test, right now. Can he treat this moment as what it is: a moment, with no more meaning than that? Can he prove to himself that this affair is simple for him, like it is for Jimmy?

If not, something needs to change.

The bathroom light goes out. The mattress dips. He can feel Jimmy watching him, in the silence, but he doesn’t react. There are things he wants to say, parameters to set, but he needs to rehearse them, first, in his head.

At last a hesitant hand comes to rest on the sheet at Alastair’s waist, and Jimmy says, quietly, “Will you do something for me?”

Alastair’s chest goes tight. “What?” He resists the urge to lean back, to relax into the other man’s touch. Enough weakness.

“You’re not going to like it.”

There’s something about the tone; something he’s not used to hearing from Jimmy. He wants to roll over, see his face. _Best not_ , he tells himself. “Go on.”

“Would you… if Swanny rings again, would you hear him out?”

Alastair rolls his eyes at the darkness. “Give it a rest—”

“I’m not _saying_ ” –Jimmy continues, talking over him— “you have to agree with him. Or forgive him. But… you used to be such good friends. Is it not worth at least giving him a _chance_?”

Alastair thinks of several things he could say, none of them kind. He settles on something else. “Has he changed his mind?”

Jimmy huffs a laugh. “Course he hasn’t. But he’s sorry that he hurt you. Really sorry.”

Alastair still doesn’t roll over, but turns his head enough to throw Jimmy a glance over his shoulder. “We’re not schoolboys. It’s not about him hurting my _feelings_.”

He didn’t mean to put quite so much sneer into that. He lays his head back down; tries again.

“He undermined me. Six, eight months before, we’d been playing together. And then there he was telling the national press that I was crap at my job. More than once.”

“He was a dick, saying all that stuff on the radio. No argument.” Jimmy’s hand has moved to Alastair’s arm, and brought a caress with it. “But what I said earlier… it’s true. He really does care about you.”

Alastair doesn’t shrug Jimmy’s hand off, but he doesn’t answer, either. He smooths the pillow by his cheek, and glares into the darkness.

“Please?”

And oh, that’s not fair. That’s not a fair tactic at all. Nor is the gentle kiss brushing his bare shoulder.

 _Piss off_ , Alastair thinks, but it’s strike one for tonight’s test, because Jimmy’s _please_ has worked where all his other words failed.

“Okay,” he says. “Fine.”

“You’ll do it?”

“I’ll _think_ about it.”

Another kiss, firmer this time. “Good.”

Alastair rolls onto his back. He was prepared to change his mind, if Jimmy got all smug. And, okay, so he does look a bit smug: lying propped up on an elbow, eyes twinkling, sheet pooled carelessly half-way down his thighs, not even pretending to cover the modesty you might think he had, if you didn’t know him better. But there’s relief in his smile, too.

Alastair drags his gaze up to that smile, with an effort. “I take it this means he’ll be calling tomorrow,” he says, drily.

Jimmy’s mouth opens, and closes again. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says at last. An unconvincing one-arm shrug. “…Maybe on your birthday.”

As Alastair closes his eyes, he harrumphs, to let Jimmy know that _he_ knows he’s been double-teamed; that Swanny probably plotted out every step of this conversation in advance, and will be getting a report from Jimmy first thing.

Alastair will wait and see. What Swanny says. He’s making no promises.

Jimmy’s next words take him by surprise; make him open his eyes, again.

“Are you going to be busy, that day? You know, your birthday. All right if I call, as well?”

“ _Course_ you can… Wait. No.” Alastair sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Come on, Jim. I can’t do phone sex when I’m at home. You of _all_ people—”

“I didn’t _mean_ —” Jimmy stops, and takes a deep breath; when he starts again, his voice is more controlled. “I just want to wish you happy birthday. Merry Christmas. That sort of thing.” A frown’s drawn his brows together into a single, forbidding line. “Why do you keep assuming everything’s about sex?”

A short, sharp laugh leaves Alastair’s mouth like a whip crack. He can’t quite believe he’s being asked this question. “Well, it _is_ , isn’t it? Like you said. Keep it simple. We’re just teammates who fuck, right?”

Alastair’s heart is thumping. Jimmy looks floored, and then looks away.

“Right,” he says. Clears his throat. “Yeah. Listen… do you want me to go?”

(Here is strike two of tonight’s test, because Alastair doesn’t. He really, fiercely doesn’t.)

What he should say is _Yes_ , to prove to them both that he’s not the naïve, needy novice Jimmy thinks he is. What he wants to say is _Don’t be daft; stay_.

What he actually says is, “Up to you.”

“…What?”

“Do what you want. You usually do.”

Jimmy used to walk away every night; simple. Then he started hanging around, but somehow he found a way to pass responsibility for it over to Alastair. _Do you want me to stay_ , he’d say, as if he was just doing Alastair a favour: Alastair the needy one, Alastair who wanted something Jimmy couldn’t give him.

 _Well_ , he thinks. _I don’t need crumbs from your table_.

“Fuck’s sake.” Jimmy sits up. “That’s not an answer. Do you want me here, or not?”

Alastair, still flat on his back, eyes him. “Do you want to _be_ here?”

(Strike three: don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.)

There’s a pause, too long, before Jimmy replies.

“Thought you might want some company. After everything.”

Alastair almost laughs, again. “That’s not an answer, either.”

A lengthy silence: unbroken, by answers or anything else.

At last, Alastair rolls over; away.

As if it’s a cue, Jimmy says, “How’re you doing?”

It’d be quite satisfying, Alastair decides, to reply _Fine_ , but that wouldn’t end the conversation. Jimmy’s the one who taught him about using _fine_ to mean not-fine, after all. So when Jimmy asks again, a little more loudly, Alastair says, “Too tired to talk about it.”

One thing he’s definitely not doing tonight is talking about his feelings. When he did that in Sri Lanka, it made things worse, not better. He has to be able to deal with all that stuff on his own. After all, on his own is what he’s going to be, from tomorrow.

He can hear Jimmy swallow. “Okay, well. Maybe – in the morning—”

“I’ll still be too tired.”

Another silence, long enough that Alastair knows it’s worked. He fights off the impulse to apologise; he’s got no need to feel guilty. Alastair’s captaincy is Alastair’s problem, not Jimmy’s.

He aches; everything from his throat to his belly hurts, like his body’s in revolt. He knows what he has to do, finally.

Three strikes. Out. This can’t go on. He just needs to work out how to say it.

\--

Jimmy wakes slowly, drifting in and out of formless dreams. At some point, he begins to suspect he’s the only warm thing in the bed. Stretches out an arm to check: yep, and for a while.

Ali’s probably gone to the gym. No, wait. It’s the off-season, and the hotel doesn’t have a gym.

Jimmy rolls onto his back, reluctantly, swallowing down the sour taste of last night’s beer. (No matter how much you brush your teeth before you go to bed, it always returns to haunt you during the night.) He opens his eyes to something that isn’t quite daylight, but isn’t night, either – then lifts his head a little way off the pillow to get a clearer view of the room, although his heart’s ahead of him, has already skipped a beat.

Ali’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to Jimmy: forearms resting on his thighs, head down, and fully dressed, it looks like.

Jimmy props himself up on an elbow. Rubs his eyes; blinks his vision clear. Takes his time over this, deliberately rustling the sheets, but gets only silence from the other man.

“You okay?” he says, at last; or croaks, rather, sleep still drying out his voice.

He hears Ali take a long, deep breath, then let it out.

“Not really.” Ali’s chuckle isn’t completely convincing, and he hasn’t looked round. A long moment passes before he adds, “I’ve got something to say. This… this thing. It isn’t working. For me. Anymore.”

“I…” Jimmy repeats it back to himself, in his head, but it doesn’t get any clearer. As he sits up, he reaches for Ali, but the other man flinches away. Jimmy feels the first stirring of misgiving, right in the pit of his stomach; tells it to fuck off. “…What? What thing?”

“This. Us. The sex. We should—” Ali shifts: pushes both hands down his thighs, fingers clutching stiffly at his knees. “I’m calling time on it. It’s done. I’m done.”

Jimmy opens his mouth and closes it again; can’t think of a single word. His belly’s churning. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this.

“There’s too much going on…” Ali stops, shaking his head. “You’ve got the World Cup to think about, and I’ve got to rebuild. There’s a lot to do, you know, uh… a lot of work. If I’m going to get to where I need to be by April. Obviously, it’ll be tough, but I can work through it, if, uh… if I can focus...”

Jimmy’s skin’s prickling, the hairs on his arms standing to attention in chilled silence. He knows these halting rhythms: this is the voice of Ali in post-match interviews, up on stage, delivering lines he’s learned ahead of time.

Jimmy grits his teeth, because _now_ he has plenty to say, and none of it’s likely to help.

(He wants to touch him. If he could only _touch_ him, he could make this okay. He’s spent so much time touching Ali this year, _surely_ —)

Ali’s still going, though. “I just need to really focus on my game, uh… Go back to basics. Forget about everything to do with the team. A clean break— sorry, clean _slate_ for the challenges ahead—”

“ _Stop_.” A flare of annoyance singes the word on its way out of Jimmy’s mouth, and he doesn’t bother to tone it down for the rest. “Just fucking stop. Any chance of you talking like a person, not a press release?”

“I’m just trying to _explain_ …” Ali’s head jerks round. It’s light enough in the room that Jimmy can see the spots of agitated colour, high on his cheeks. His gaze won’t settle, like it’s bouncing off everything. “Look, this is the only way I can—”

“You want a break? Fine.” Jimmy slumps back against the pillows; waves an arm expansively, restlessly. “Have it. I’ll be out of the country for three months, anyway.”

(He’ll regret the tone of this, later; the sneer in it.)

“Not… Not just that.” Ali’s got a fist bunched in the sheets behind him, now. It’s a sight Jimmy’s seen a lot; it’s a sign he’s doing something right, usually. He looks away from it, and the tightness it’s bringing to his chest. “When we’re back playing together. _If_ we’re back playing together. I need you in the dressing room, more than in my bed. I need to be able to talk to you without it being awkward. Without… being distracted.” Ali sighs. “I need my attack leader. And my friend.”

“What th—” Jimmy scrambles back up again, mouth agape. Of all the things Ali’s said, this one’s the sucker punch. “We _are_ friends.”

Ali’s gaze is steady, this time; it fixes Jimmy in place. “Are we?”

Silence seeps in to the room, slowly filling the gap left by Ali’s words. Jimmy becomes aware that his hands, braced by his sides, are shaking; with anger or adrenaline, he’s not sure. He waits until it subsides.

“Course we are,” he mutters, at last.

Ali watches him a moment longer, then bows his head. “You were right. About keeping it simple. And we’ve tried. We have. But all the lying and sneaking around and… I can’t afford that anymore. I’ve got” –Ali swallows, audibly— “more important things to do.”

“ _Fuck_ off.” Jimmy shoves back the covers, and propels himself to his feet. Faces Ali across the bed. “I was important enough last night. One last shag for the road, was it? Or— or did you just need the time to plan your speech?”

(He can see, out of the corner of his eye, the rope he left tied to the headboard when they were done: part trophy, part sentiment. He feels like such an idiot.)

Ali’s on his feet now, too. “That’s _not_ — I didn’t…”

Jimmy hisses a sharp, humourless laugh. “You know what, fuck it. I don’t care.” There’s a burning sensation at the back of his eyes as he strides over to the bathroom. “You’ve had your bit of naughtiness. Now you can go back to flogging yourself for the ECB, like a good little choirboy.”

He gets a brief, nauseating moment of double vision. _Choirboy. Altar boy_. He sounds like Pup. He needs to stop.

He makes himself take the scene in, really _see_ it. Ali’s already packed. He’s got his shoes on. He’s about to leave. _No_. Jimmy grips the bathroom door handle, hard, and tries one last time.

“I thought I was helping.” His own voice sounds weird: kind of small, and lost. “That it was an outlet, you know. Distraction.”

“It was. You were.” Ali’s playing with the loose strap of his bag; twisting it over and over in his hands. “But things have changed. You’re not just a distraction, anymore. You’re a complication.”

Jimmy will pick over these final words, later, and for some time afterwards. He’ll come up with any number of replies: clever, funny, hurtful, _angry_ ; things he’ll mean, things he won’t, and some things he won’t be sure about either way.

But right now, nothing comes, because he’s no better at talking than he was twelve hours ago. It feels like something’s being torn out of him, but as Ali leaves the room, without ever _once_ looking up, Jimmy makes no move to stop him.

\--

Once upon a time, Alastair had people he could talk to, when he wasn’t sure what to do. There were two guys, in particular, that he went to – even if he didn’t always follow their advice, because sometimes he was stubborn, and sometimes their advice was ridiculous. But then he fell out with one of them, and got so entangled with the other that he forgot how to be friends with him.

The end.

So here he is, at the end: hovering in the hotel reception, realising that he’s ended up with a keycard in each pocket and a small grey-blue box in his backpack. There’s no way he can go strolling back into the argument he left two minutes ago without losing face, or losing his resolve. But he can’t leave Jimmy without a key, either; he can’t check out while Jimmy’s still in the room. And he has to make a bloody decision about the box: the gift that wasn’t wanted.

The gift that, in being given, gave away too much.

If he had someone to talk to, he’d ask them what he should do. But he doesn’t. And he’d ignore the advice even if he did, because by process of elimination it’d pretty much have to come from Swanny, and so would probably just consist of _Kiss him!_ , which isn’t even slightly helpful.

The box is where it all started to go wrong, or maybe it isn’t. But it’s a _thing_ , isn’t it? A symbol, or something. A way to draw a line.

( _A reminder of the fun we had_ , he called it, back in July.)

So: Alastair takes a deep breath, then another, tightens the screw on his courage (or whatever the quote was that he was meant to learn for GCSE English Lit, and didn’t), and grabs another piece of the hotel notepaper, just in case he chickens out at the last minute. Then he heads back to room 403.

He counts to five before he pushes the keycard in the slot, but that turns out to be a wasted tax on his nerves, because when he opens the door, Jimmy’s in the shower. Assuming Jimmy hasn’t switched the water on and then gone wandering the hotel corridors without any of the clothes that are still strewn across the autumn-leaves carpet, of course, which certainly isn’t _impossible_ , although it’s not a happy thought, given what just happened. But Alastair doesn’t want to think about the look on Mr Keep-It-Simple’s face, the strain in his voice, so he puts that thought aside.

Plus, he’s wasting his chance to chicken out.

He drags the crumpled paper from his pocket, a pen from his bag. No time to plan his words, as he’d like, but it does stop him second guessing. When he’s done, he folds the paper four times, until it’s small enough to tuck inside the box, with the cufflinks. He deposits the box and the keycards – both of them, so he’s not tempted to come back a second time – on the cabinet by Jimmy’s phone, where the other man’s most likely to see them.

On the threshold, Alastair pauses. “Bye,” he whispers – to the room at large, to the light just starting to creep around the edges of the curtains, to the closed bathroom door and the man behind it. Then he slips through the door, and away, for the last time.

\-- FIN --

**Author's Note:**

> Well. So that happened.
> 
> Um.
> 
> Thank you all, once again, for reading and commenting on my dumb porny soap opera. (I can only apologise for rewarding your kindness by wallowing in angst.) While I write fic primarily for the enjoyment of writing (um, most of the time), I'm not going to pretend that I don't also crave external validation. I can't tell you how much it means to know that actual other people think this stuff is kinda worth reading. (No matter how many fics you've posted, you never _quite_ believe it, amirite?) I always love hearing which bits got you smiling or squeeing or sad. (But hopefully not _too_ sad. The world still contains kittens, after all.)
> 
> Thanks are especially due to the small handful of you (I can think of three?) who've been with me since the beginning, which shows a truly admirable depth of patience. You are delightful, and the reason I kept going all this time.
> 
> I know I've said this before, but... I've seen it observed, a lot, that fic fandom has got more one-sided in recent years, especially since we all left LJ; that comment chat has dried to a trickle, compared to what it used to be like. But I really feel like the cricket fam bucks this trend, despite the fact that we're tiny; I've had such fantastic conversations with people in the comments to my fic, and while commenting on other people's fics. So you're all great and you should keep that up. Like - to pluck an example from the air _totally at random_ \- when a whole bunch of new stories appear next week, from the latest Secret Santner fic exchange. Why not get your commenting hat on and leave a little note for someone whose fic you haven't commented on before? go on go on go on :)
> 
> \--
> 
> Links...
> 
> A short video of Jimmy and Alastair's evening at the darts is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GFcqrkE8fVM); one bit that I'm sure I remember from the broadcast (Alastair's "First time in a while" comeback to the heckler) isn't in here, which either means this is a slightly different edit or that my memory is faultier than I'd realised. Thanks to latenightwatchman for pointing out that Alastair's pre-darts interview (which includes a nice little sledge aimed at Fred that I'd totally forgotten about) can be seen online [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AM7miIPcLNk). There's also a behind the scenes video [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4iOZGMZwqcE).
> 
> Various photos and gifs of the evening are collected in [this tag](https://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/tagged/darts) on my blog.
> 
> Also courtesy of latenightwatchman, if you want to get a sense of what Jimmy is like when he's drunk, [this video from 2015](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6kyWeiIuGQ) seems like a pretty good guide. And in [part 2 of the same interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BB1ItGy0yno) he even mentions this Ally Pally ~~date night~~ darts evening XD
> 
> Michael Clarke's speech from Philip Hughes' funeral is [here](http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/cricket/30308303). There will be a little more on this in [the next chapter of 'Halo'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3538022/chapters/7786064), which I can _finally_ finish and post after a nearly two-year wait. I'll be in the market for a sensitive (and preferably Aussie) beta-reader for that chapter; the intention is to keep a respectful distance from what happened (I obviously don't want to cheapen a RL tragedy by trying to engage with it too directly in fic), but I'd appreciate another pair or two of eyes to check me if I need it. Drop me a DM on tumblr if you're willing.
> 
> Fic-wise, basically everything has been leading to this instalment, especially since I first heard the Delays track two years ago and decided it would make a fucking awesome break-up song because _I am the worst_. Most immediately relevant is the last chapter of ['The Third Test'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4165137/chapters/10329873). The cufflinks, as several of you spotted at the time, made (or will make, if we're talking in timeline terms) a cameo in ['What We're Leaving Out'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4718648). Alastair left a note for Jimmy in chapter 4 of ['The Fifth Test'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5842474/chapters/13886521) because I was already mentally rehearsing this chapter. There's a bunch of other parallels, some intentional and some doubtless because I'm prone to repeating myself, but I won't try your patience by listing them all here XD
> 
> (okay, shut up, kutubiyya, and just post the damn thing...)


End file.
